


It's Called Efficiency

by WitchFlame (RachelMcN)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angels Being Assholes (Good Omens), Angels are Lazy, Aren't we all?, Aziraphale is Good at Being an Angel (Good Omens), Crowley is Good at Being a Demon (Good Omens), Crowley is a Little Shit (Good Omens), Demon Summoning, Gen, Hes's the Only One, It's Like Copying Your Schoolmates Essay, Nobody Likes a Cheater, Only You Get Away With It, Summoning, Tempter Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:34:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24255178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RachelMcN/pseuds/WitchFlame
Summary: Occasionally, Heaven sends down another of their angels to show face and wrack up some points for the good guys before they're allowed to come home.Finding wiles to thwart is difficult though and the Earth is large and noisy and dirty. What is a poor, homesick angel to do?Why, if you can't find a demon, may as well call one. It's thwarting all the same, right?Crowley is used to leading these idiots a merry chase by now.
Comments: 29
Kudos: 136





	It's Called Efficiency

Crowley knows better than to speak, when he is called to the bidding of an angel. The being arches their wings, displaying their power before his binding circle. They remind him of a peacock, desperate to impress. He stays hunched in ethereal chains, awaiting the end of their performance in silence. Pretentious bastards, the lot of them.

The only thing that can be said in their favour is that their implied demands are often simple to carry out. They like to feel useful, when they deign to flutter down from their high perch and visit. Prefer to return to Heaven in a timely manner with an assurance of victorious conduct under their belt. He can understand that part, at least. No demon would dare return Below with nothing to show for their travel. They refuse to stay long enough to seek out their own triumphs, however. God forbid the mire of Earth should stain their pristine soles.

The angel breaks their hold over him and he flees as they expect. He darts through the open streets, slinking through several shortcuts as he feels them shadowing his escape. He slows in the final alley, putting on a show of relief as he slumps against the rough hewn stone. Amateurs at stalking prey, he swears, not a clue how to shield themselves effectively.

He waits until the burn of their grace becomes unbearable against his back, their expectant gaze pricking along his nerves. Pulls himself upright, fixes his cuffs, smooths down his shirt. Acts the part of the confident demon with the memory of a goldfish, as if he could forget the threatening glow of their divine light or that he was walking the streets of an entirely different city moments before he found himself unceremoniously pulled into their power. He slinks out of the alley, portraying the single-minded deviousness that they expect to see, no matter that there is an angel pursuing him. He is not oblivious to their presence, much as they appear to believe otherwise.

He takes a moment to consider his options as he walks calmly towards the centre of town. There’s no leaving here, while they track him. Usually they are content thwarting low level crimes so he may as well test them with such while he entertains more complex wiles to get them off his back.

He casts a splintered curse at a passing carriage, feigning ignorance as an angelic miracle slips around the loose wheel and seals it back in place. The carriage trundles onwards and he debates the level of their intelligence that they truly believe he would fail to notice the lack of cacophony that should accompany a successful curse.

He rolls his eyes and flicks his fingers towards a vegetable stall as he draws deeper into the heart of town. The stall owner spins hopelessly, having lost the produce they could swear they had just unpacked a moment ago. A cry of confused triumph resounds as they miraculously locate their lost commodities behind an empty crate.

A child drops their toy as their mother pulls them along and a snap banishes the little wooden doll from sight. There’s an audible pop in his ears as a miracle reaches through the crack in space and pulls the toy back into existence, dropping it in a surprised child’s hands.

Crowley strokes a palm along an arching cats back and encourages it to scratch the next person it sees. He can almost taste the anticipation of the angel as they approach the cat and he bites back a cackle at the sharply aborted cry that echoes from behind as he saunters further on.

A straining dog finds the rope holding it in place snapping loose and a shouting owner chases it down the street. As the man circles around, Crowley can see the confusion on his face as he passes, knowing the source to be the newly collared dog barking happily back at the fencepost.

He taps a young man on his shoulder and pretends to pilfer something from his pocket when he turns his head. He hisses a belief into his mind that he’s just been robbed of his inheritance and feels the flailing pull of power as the confused angel tries to return the non-existent coin to its rightful owner when the boy loudly exclaims his poor luck. The floundering angel wastes an array of personal miracles as they craft silver from the ether in an effort to thwart a wrong, hurrying after before they lose him.

He saunters past a penned flock, convincing the animals there is a vicious predator among them and patting one of the sheep at the nape of its neck as he tells it of its sudden transformation into a terrifying wolf. He leaves the angel to sort out the panicking mass of animals, one of which is giving its best attempt at a howl as the others eye it with distrust.

While the angel is busy, he hooks a horse by its halter and whispers that it better act lame when the one in white wanders by, or it will be. The horse obediently whinnies assent and refuses to place its fore-hoof back upon the ground no matter what the angel tries to resolve the problem.

He glances suspiciously over his shoulder as he moves on, knowing full well that the angel is perched atop the roof at his right. If they have their wings out, then they deserve everything they get should a human trained in the occult find their loose feathers.

He realises he needs to go fancier for this one and weaves a curse of misdirection in front of the church. As they are busy untangling that, he knits a net of wrath and waits until the angel is in the midst of the market to pin it in place. He slinks out from among the furious accusations growing between the townspeople as the attention of the angel is split between warring parties and scarpers for the edge of town.

He sheds his human guise, twisting into the scales of a serpent as he slips below the foundations of a home and muffles his essence to a low thrum beneath his skin. The grace of the angel flits visibly across town, seeking his presence after they have quelled the unrest he taunted. He flicks his tongue and waits until they accept the success of his departure and leave to share the news with Heaven of their glowing defence of a town the bloody idiot summoned him to in the first place.

Aziraphale greets him when he comes across the familiar angel a week later, in the nearby city. He likes Aziraphale, he appears to be the only angel willing to get their precious robe dusty down in the dirt with humanity.

“I thought you were in Asia,” Aziraphale comments cheerfully, offering him a fresh slice of pie from his plate.

“Fancied a change,” Crowley lies, waving off the generous temptation, “How are you getting on? Superiors getting on your case at all? I could set up something big for you to thwart, if you like.”

“Honestly,” Aziraphale huffs, pulling his plate closer in affront, “As if I weren’t capable of locating such wiles myself. I hardly need your assistance to mimic such a feat. There’s trouble aplenty without you stirring up more just to distract me.”

“Course not,” Crowley grins, lounging against the table, “Headed anywhere interesting?”

Aziraphale literally lights up and Crowley draws a dimming web around their table to counter the curious attention of humanity as the excited angel shares the news of a thrilling expedition he has been asked to accompany.

As they leave town, Crowley bares his fangs at a passing coach horse, causing it to rear in fright. Aziraphale reaches out to calm the panicked creature with a soft wave of reassurance, never faltering in his tale of the humans he is headed to meet. With an errant flick a hurrying midwife trips and Aziraphale reflexively ensures her safety and twines a blessing of good fortune for the delivery she rushes to attend. It is instinctual now, for the angel to counter the baser aspects of his demonic acquaintance, involuntary acts that he accepts as a matter of course as part of their relationship. Crowley is a demon at heart, after all, he can’t be expected to restrain himself utterly.

Of course not, he can’t allow his favourite angel to appear to be slacking, can he?


End file.
